Upon examination he found that Greenwood's forehead had received a terrible wound, from which the blood was streaming down his temples.
He was moreover quite senseless; and the postillion, after binding the wound with a handkerchief, vainly endeavoured to recover him.
"Well, it won't do to let the poor gentleman die in this way," said the man to himself; and, after an instant's reflection, he remembered that Markham Place was close at hand.
Depositing Greenwood as comfortably as he could on the cushions which he took from the chaise, he hastened to the mansion, and related to the servants all that had occurred.
Without a moment's hesitation,—well knowing that their conduct would be approved of by their excellent master,—three stout footmen hastened, with the means of forming a litter, to the spot where the postillion had left Greenwood.
On their arrival they found that he had to some extent recovered his senses; and a cordial, which one of the footmen poured down his throat, completely revived him.
But, alas! he was aroused only to the fearful conviction that he had received his death-blow; for that mysterious influence which sometimes warns the soul of its approaching flight, was upon him!
"My good friends," he said, in a faint and languid tone, "I have one request to make—the request of a dying man!"
"Name it, sir," returned the senior footman; "and command us as you will."
"I conjure you, then," exclaimed Greenwood, speaking with more strength and animation than at first,—"I conjure you to remove me on that litter which your kindness has prepared, to the spot where your master, his family, and friends are now assembled. You hesitate! Oh! grant me this request, I implore you—and the Prince will not blame you!"